Once a Pilgrim

by James Deegan

  And then they’d gone and sent that fecking eejit, Dessie, and everything was going wrong.

  He stood up, kissed his daughter on the head and walked into the kitchen.

  ‘I’m away up the Glenowen for a jar,’ he said.

  ‘You alright, love?’ said his wife.

  He looked at her – sweet, naive, girl that she was.

  Never a thought in her head about Brits and the Struggle and the sodding tricolour and a united fucking Ireland – she just worried about the kids and the mortgage and her job. She just tried to keep her husband happy.

  And who was right, she or he?

  ‘Aye, I’m alright.’

  ‘You sure? You’ve been awful quiet and upset-looking these past few days.’

  It’s like this, love: for reasons best known to myself, I passed on the identities and addresses of two former British soldiers to the PIRA…

  ‘Ach, work’s just getting on top of me a bit. Don’t worry, I’m fine.’

  ‘Well, don’t be too late, eh?’

  ‘Sure, I’m driving so it’s two pints, max.’

  ‘Will I wait up?’

  ‘You don’t have to.’

  ‘Okay, I might or I mightn’t.’

  He hugged her, pulled on his black jacket, and left.

  104.

  IT WAS A HALF-MILE drive to the Glenowen, where he could at least be sure of a Sunday evening chat with an old pal or two.

  His mood lifted at the prospect.

  He didn’t notice the black Audi which was parked up fifty yards from his house, and which tailed him to the pub.

  It carried on past, and then doubled back and parked several streets away.

  105.

  HE’D TAKEN A PUNT and had three pints – it wasn’t too far, and the chances of getting pulled over and breathalysed were low, anyway – and his spirits had lifted a little by the time he left the boozer.

  Maybe he was worrying about nothing?

  If you thought about it, what did they actually know?

  Okay, the Kosovan had disappeared.

  But who said he hadn’t gone on a bender, or hadn’t shacked up with some other woman?

  He tried to put himself in John Carr’s position.

  Why would he want to come to Belfast and take on the RA?

  Surely he’d be more likely just to move to a new flat and hope it all went away?

  He reached his car, zapped it, and got in.

  Pulled on his seat belt.

  Stuck the key in.

  Sure, that’s what I’d do in his shoes. You’d have to be fucking mad to come over here and…

  That was when he heard the door open behind him, and sensed the weight in the car as a man from the shadows climbed into the back seat.

  He felt something cold against his neck.

  ‘Hello, Conor,’ said a gravelly voice. ‘My name’s John Carr.’

  ‘Oh, God.’

  ‘This is a pistol. My finger’s on the trigger, but I won’t pull it if you do as I say. All I really want to do is talk to you. I know you’re a family man. I’m not here for you. But I need your help.’

  ‘Why should I believe you?’

  ‘You’re still alive, aren’t you?’

  Conor Maguire sat and trembled in silence.

  ‘Now,’ said Carr, ‘I want you to drive out to Hannahstown. There’s a little lane I know. We can chat there.’

  Hands shaking, Maguire started the car, and turned left out of the pub car park.

  A matter of minutes later, they were out in the Antrim countryside; after a mile or so, Carr said, ‘Turn down there.’

  A narrow, rutted track, hedges on either side.

  Maguire hesitated.

  ‘If you don’t, I’ll kill you,’ said Carr. ‘If you do, I won’t.’

  He did as he was told.

  ‘Pull in there, engine and lights off,’ said Carr. ‘And keep your hands on the wheel where I can see them.’

  Again, Maguire obeyed.

  Carr lowered his window.

  Black as your hat, except for the faint orange glow from the city behind them.

  Cold air.

  The ticking of the engine as it cooled.

  Distant traffic.

  Nothing nearby.

  He waited a minute.

  Then said, ‘Why did you tell Pat Casey about me and Michael Parry?’

  ‘I didn’t.’

  ‘Don’t lie to me, Conor. Dessie Callaghan gave you up before I killed him.’

  Maguire started crying, softly; it told Carr all he needed to know.

  ‘Ugly fucker, Dessie,’ said Carr. ‘He didn’t look any better with his bollocks blown off.’

  He let Maguire snivel for a few moments.

  Then he said, ‘I just want to know why.’

  ‘I don’t know. It seemed like a good idea at the time. I didn’t think he’d kill you.’

  ‘If you lie to me we’re really going to fall out.’

  ‘Sorry.’

  ‘You knew Casey would put a hit out, didn’t you?’

  Maguire nodded.

  ‘Did you know Mick Parry had two daughters?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘One of them gets married in a couple of months. No dad to walk her down the aisle.’

  Maguire started sobbing.

  Carr waited for him to compose himself, and then said, ‘I know Casey didnae put the hit out hisself. Too smart for that. I’m assuming it was Freckles?’

  Maguire nodded.

  ‘Real name Brian Keogh?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘I thought so. What does he look like these days?’

  ‘My height. Pot belly. He used to have curly ginger hair, but he’s going bald so he shaves it. His face is pink, like a… like a rat. Lots of freckles, obviously.’

  ‘How old?’

  ‘Sixties.’

  ‘What does he wear?’

  ‘Usual clothes. Jeans. A denim jacket. I don’t know.’

  ‘And where does he stay just now?’

  ‘I don’t know.’

  ‘Come on, Conor, we’re not playing games here. Don’t lie to me. Because I know where you stay.’

  ‘Honestly, I don’t know. Honestly I don’t. Somewhere in west Belfast, but I can’t narrow it down. These guys, they don’t advertise where they live. He’ll not be on the electoral roll or the bills nor nothing.’

  True.

  ‘I can find out for you?’ said Maguire, hopefully. ‘Let you know tomorrow?’

  Carr chuckled. ‘The last man who took me for a fool wound up in rag order.’

  ‘Sorry.’

  ‘Okay, where does he drink?’

  ‘He’s in the Vollie most nights. On the Falls. And most dinner times, come to that.’

  Sounds about right, thought Carr. Pissheads, the lot of them.

  ‘What’s The Volunteer like these days?’ he said. ‘Still full of players?’

  ‘Not as many as used to get in. But there’ll always be a few.’

  ‘Will they search me?’

  ‘I don’t know. They might.’

  ‘Okay. Do you have his phone number?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Conor…’

  ‘I mean, not on me,’ said Maguire, frantically. ‘I can’t store it in my phone, can I? How would that look? Given who he is and where I work?’

  ‘I need that number.’

  ‘I’ll have to call my wife.’

  Carr thought for a moment.

  Then said, ‘Okay, you can call your wife. But be very careful what you say, unless you want her to hear you getting your brains shot out.’

  ‘I will, honestly. Can I get my phone?’

  ‘Carefully, and slowly, and remember I’ve got a gun at your head.’

  Conor Maguire reached into his jacket pocket, pulled out his mobile, and scrolled down until he reached ‘H’.

  HOME.

  Pressed the green button.

  Waited for the connection.

  In
the dark silent night, Carr could hear it ring out.

  Heard Maguire’s wife answer.

  ‘Hello?’

  Tinny and distant, but clear enough.

  ‘Hi sweetheart,’ said Maguire. ‘It’s me.’

  ‘Oh,’ she said. ‘Hi, love. Are yous on your way back?’

  ‘Not just at the moment. Can you do me a favour, look in my little book and get me a number?’

  ‘Surely. Wait a second.’

  There was a pause while Maguire’s wife went to locate the requisite book.

  Then: ‘Here we are, love. What number are yous wanting?’

  ‘It’s under N,’ said Maguire. ‘Should be down as Nicky. It’s got a line through it, but you can still make it out.’

  ‘Yes, got it.’

  She read out the number, and Carr tapped it into his own phone as she did so.

  ‘Is that it, love?’ she said.

  ‘Aye. It is.’

  ‘Are yous okay? Only you sound a bit… funny?’

  Car jammed the cold steel of the pistol harder into Maguire’s neck.

  ‘No,’ he said. ‘I’m fine. Don’t worry about me. Give the kids a kiss for me.’

  ‘The kids?’ She sounded confused. ‘Sure, it’s gone ten. They’re in bed, love.’

  ‘Okay. Well, I’ve got to go. I’ll see you later. I love you.’

  She started replying, but Maguire had killed the call off.

  He bowed his head, put his hands back on the wheel, and wept for a minute.

  When he’d recovered, he said, over his shoulder, ‘You’re going to kill me, aren’t you?’

  ‘That depends on whether you fuck me about,’ said Carr, calmly. ‘Now…’

  ‘Wait, wait,’ said Maguire. ‘That’s not Freckles’ number.’

  ‘So you are fucking me about?’

  ‘No,’ he said, hastily. ‘No, no, I swear. That’s exactly why I’m telling you... Jesus, I cannat have an IRA armourer’s phone number in my book, can I? I’m not that stupid. I’ve… I encoded it, a bit. Can you read me the number my wife read out?’

  Carr read out the number.

  ‘The dialling code?’ said Maguire. ‘The last digit should be a zero, not a nine. Then the number itself – take the middle two digits out and put them to the front.’

  Carr did that, and read out the new number.

  ‘Yes. That’s it.’

  Carr nodded in appreciation.

  A little tradecraft.

  In the dim light, he saw Conor Maguire’s shoulders relax.

  ‘I don’t want you,’ he said. ‘I don’t even really want Freckles. I want Casey. I went to his house, but he got away. Doing a runner, the coward. I overhead him saying he was away to some farm. Where would that be?’

  ‘I don’t know.’

  ‘Why’re you protecting him? Would he protect you?’

  ‘No, he wouldn’t,’ said Maguire, bitterly. ‘If I knew I’d tell you. I just don’t know. I don’t move in their circles. I see them out and about, but…’

  Carr sat back and looked at the back of Maguire’s head.

  Thought long and hard.

  He was wrestling with one question: Do I kill this fucker, or can I afford to let him go?

  He’d been watching Maguire’s house earlier that evening, and had seen his wife come home with two kids and a boot full of shopping.

  Carr was not a heartless man, and he’d never even raised his hand to anyone who wasn’t asking for it, much less killed them.

  He had no desire to hurt an innocent woman or her children.

  But the man sitting in the seat in front of him had started all of this.

  He’d been hoping to engineer Carr’s death.

  And the odds were he’d been the one who’d identified Carr’s own family, too.

  Not to mention, could he trust Maguire not to alert Casey?

  Could he trust him not to go to the police?

  Fuck, it was tough.

  ‘What’s going on?’ said Maguire, nervously, half turning his head.

  ‘Eyes front,’ snapped Carr. ‘I’m wondering what to do with you.’

  Thirty seconds later, he said, ‘Okay. You left-handed or right-handed?’

  ‘What? Left. Why?’

  ‘And what’s your favourite spirit?’

  ‘What is this?’

  ‘What spirit do you drink?’

  ‘Whiskey or vodka.’

  ‘Irish if it’s whiskey?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘I guessed right. Now, I’m going to pass you through a half bottle of Jameson. When I pass it through, you’re going to take your hands off the wheel just to unscrew it. Then you’re going to put your right hand back on the wheel and you’re going to use the left to put the bottle of whiskey to your mouth, and you’re going to drink it.’

  Maguire half-turned to look at him – the first time he’d done so. ‘All of it?’ he said.

  ‘Aye.’

  ‘That’ll kill me.’

  ‘It won’t kill you, but it will put you to sleep. Half a bottle of whiskey’d knock a mule out, and by the time you wake up you’ll not be sure if this was a dream or a nightmare, or what. In the meantime, I can take my leave knowing you’ll not be following me or phoning no-one.’

  ‘Really? That’s it?’

  The relief in his voice was palpable.

  ‘No. If you call Casey or Freckles or anyone else, police included, you’re a dead man. I know where you live, and I’m not working alone. Even if someone gets to me, you’re not safe. Understood?’

  ‘Yes, yes, understood. I’ll not say nothing to no-one.’

  ‘Right. Here you go.’

  Maguire took the half bottle from Carr’s gloved hand, and did as he was told.

  It took him five minutes to finish the whole thing, and he was gagging by the end.

  In the dim light, Carr watched the spirit take effect.

  On top of three pints, it was quick and it was massive.

  Inside ten minutes, Maguire was incapably drunk.

  ‘Jeeessush,’ he said, head lolling forward.

  He mumbled incoherently for a few moments.

  Carr got out of the car and opened the driver’s door.

  ‘Put your hands back on the steering wheel,’ he said.

  ‘Wha’ the fuck?’ slurred Maguire. ‘Why?’

  ‘I just want to secure you. I can’t afford to have you wandering around drunk, Conor.’

  Squinting, Maguire put his hands at ten to two.

  Carr took two sets of plasticuffs from his pockets and quickly lashed Maguire’s hands to the wheel, over the thick leather of his black jacket, tight enough to restrain him, but not to leave marks.

  The Irishman hardly noticed.

  Then Carr reached into his bag.

  Took out a roll of cling film and started to wind it around Maguire’s head and face.

  He had completed three or four turns before the other man even realised what was happening.

  Maguire started grunting and thrashing in panic, but Carr restrained him; it was easy enough, given his weakened, drunken state.

  After sixty seconds, Maguire puked.

  With his mouth sealed, he began drowning in his own vomit.

  With that and the lack of oxygen, he was quickly unconscious.

  Carr stood back from the car, and the smell of urine and faeces and vomit, and waited for nearly fifteen minutes, listening for any approaching wheels or feet.

  Then he reached into his pocket and took out a Leatherman. He snipped both sets of plasticuffs and placed them in a carrier bag. He then slowly unwound the cling film and placed that into the same bag.

  Placed the bag in his pocket.

  Wound up the back window.

  Made sure he’d left nothing behind.

  Reclined Maguire’s seat as far as it would go.

  Put the empty Jameson bottle in his hand.

  Closed his door.

  Just another drunk who drove out here to drown hi
s sorrows, fell asleep, and choked on his own puke.

  Carr walked smartly away, keeping to the shadows.

  Two miles to his own car.

  He had not enjoyed his evening’s work, and he felt truly sorry for Conor Maguire’s family.

  But it had had to be done.

  By the time he reached the vehicle, John Carr had put it far to the back of his mind.

  Now for Freckles.

  106.

  OLEG KOVALEV’S REDEYE flight landed in Belfast at just gone eight o’clock on the Monday morning.

  He was never at his best early on, and he was glad to get out of the terminal so that he could suck down a Winston and breathe in some fresh diesel and kerosene fumes.

  It reminded him of home.

  He ground the butt of the cigarette into the pavement and climbed into a taxi.

  And then he was on his way to the Europa.

  The irony amused him; it was supposedly Europe’s most-bombed hotel – though he suspected there were better contenders for that title in the Ukraine and the Balkans – and he’d almost certainly assisted the bombers during his KGB days.

  But as he was whisked through the streets the smile slid off his face and was replaced by a thoughtful expression.

  He knew John Carr well enough to know that Carr didn’t want help.

  When men like John Carr said No, I’m going to do this on my own, you were supposed to leave them to it.

  But he also knew that even men like Carr could make mistakes, could misjudge the odds, could wind up in trouble.

  He liked Carr, he owed Carr, and he was going to help Carr as best he could.

  His plan was by no means foolproof.

  First off, he couldn’t follow Carr around. Carr was trained in counter-surveillance, and in Belfast he’d have his eyes out on stalks. Oleg was good, but it just wasn’t possible for one man to trail a guy like that and not get made.

  So he’d solved that with trackers in the car and phone he’d made available to him.

  Trouble was, while he could see where Carr was heading, he couldn’t see whether he was heading into an ambush.

  He needed to find some way of tracking Pat Casey, and he was damned sure he’d be a tough nut to follow, too.

  So he’d come up with a scheme, which – if it worked – would be very satisfying.

  Oleg Kovalev was a serious judoka.

  On the judo mat, you won by turning your opponent’s strengths against him so that they became weaknesses.